


Badass Softie

by SolarMorrigan



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Babby Dave, Brotherly Fluff, Gen, Ridiculous Title
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-03
Updated: 2012-06-03
Packaged: 2017-11-06 17:32:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolarMorrigan/pseuds/SolarMorrigan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is DIRK STRIDER. No one calls you that much anymore, though. Mostly, you go by BRO. And god, you cannot handle crying to save your life. Oneshot, brotherly Strider fluff, gen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Badass Softie

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this for a kink meme prompt. It's not new, but I just got around to putting it here and on Tumblr. But I might actually have something new in the near future, maybe?
> 
> Also posted on [tumblr](http://clearlyodd.tumblr.com/post/24319412279/badass-softie).

Your name is DIRK STRIDER. No one calls you that much anymore, though. Mostly, you go by BRO. That’s what you taught DAVE to call you.

You are MUCH TOO YOUNG to have a kid, some people would say. Fuck those people, you would say. Anyway, he’s not your kid, he’s your LITTLE BRO… who you found in a crater with a dead horse and… you know what? That’s not important. What _is_ important is that you are one BADASS MOTHERFUCKER with many COOL INTERESTS, the most relevant of which involves SWORD FIGHTING.

It’s relevant, of course, because you are currently strifing with your six-year-old little bro on the roof of your apartment building. Six years old is MUCH TOO YOUNG to be sword fighting with anyone, some would say. Again, you would say fuck those people. Who are these judgmental assholes, anyway? Besides, you’re taking it way easy on Dave, since it’s his first real strife and all. The kid is pretty good, but nowhere near good enough to face you at your best. Someday, maybe, but for now you’re going easier than a ten dollar street walker.

You should really learn to cool it on those metaphors when Dave’s around. There is nothing ironic about having to explain to a six-year-old what ‘giving head’ means. Never. Again.

Awkward definitions aside, you think this is going pretty well. Dave is trying to put the lessons you taught him to use, you can see how hard he’s trying in his white-knuckled grip on the sword that’s probably too big for him, and he slips up a little but he’s doing pretty good for a kid. And fuck, it feels great to actually duel with a living, breathing person, even if you have to pull all your proverbial punches, because you haven’t done this is in god knows how long. You might just be getting a little too into it, a little too excited (not that anyone will ever, ever know that you, a STRIDER, don’t have a completely iron grip on yourself at all times) because the kid is starting to look nervous and you’re telling yourself to back off a bit before- “Augh!”- _shit._

Dave’s sword clatters on the roof and you back right the fuck off, but it’s a little late for that because he’s clutching his forearm where you nicked him and, oh god, he’s already starting to sniffle. You can just _see_ the tears that are starting to well up in his eyes, pointy shades or no. Shit, shit, shit- yeah, there’s the first fat tear rolling down his freckled little cheek and oh, no, this is not good.

The cut isn’t really much; it’s a few inches long and, yeah, it’s bleeding, but you can tell from here it’s not that deep. A couple of Band-Aids and some antiseptic and he’ll be as good as new. But he’s six and he doesn’t know that; all he knows is that he’s bleeding and it hurts and his bro was the one that did it and _you_ know the water works are a few seconds out and if you don’t do something _fast_ , you’re screwed. “Hey, little man, cut that shit out,” You kneel down to his level, trying to sound stern, “Crying is not cool.”

Bless his little heart, he tries to stop it, you can tell. He sniffs harder, like he’s trying to suck the tears back in, but it’s not working because there are a few more leaking out from under his little shades and his face is red and- oh, shit, you are probably the worst human being ever. “Hey, hey…” You’re not entirely sure what you planning on saying but at that point Dave just bursts into tears and Jesus, you have to fix this _right now_ , and you find yourself saying, “Hey, c’mere” and holding your arms open.

Faster than you knew the kid could actually move, he’s clinging to you like he did when he was even littler and getting your shirt all wet with forbidden and confounding tears and you’re really, really not sure what to do but you know you have to make it better somehow because your heart is kind of breaking. Ironically.

God, you cannot handle crying to save your life.

You wrap your arms around the six-year-old ball of misery currently soaking your cool duds and stand up with him braced against your side so you can flashstep back down to the bathroom in your shitty apartment. Closing the toilet lid, you set him down on top of it and examine the cut on his arm; you were right, it’s really not that bad, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s there and Dave’s still crying and you’re still trying to make him stop. “It’s not that bad, kiddo- just a flesh wound.” Over-used movie references are definitely not cool, but you just watched The Holy Grail with Dave last week and you figure it might at least get a little smile out of him.

There is a small, wet giggle for your efforts and even if there are still tears, it’s sort of an improvement. You clean the cut through all of Dave’s squirming and then plaster him with more Band-Aids than is probably necessary. There is nothing better than ironic Scooby-Doo Band-Aids, you swear (even if Dave is too young to understand the irony and just plain thinks they’re awesome). The tears have all but stopped, though the sniffling is still a thing that’s happening, so you pull off his shades and take a wad of toilet paper to clean up his face a little. “See, you’re alright. Better?” You ask, discarding the snotty cloth.

He nods and goes in for another hug, wrapping tiny arms around your neck. You try to discourage too much of this touchy-feely stuff but fuck if you’re going to do anything about it now. You pat him on the back and stand up when he releases you, gesturing for him to follow you out of the bathroom. “C’mon, Dave.”

“Wh-where’re we going?” He stutters, wiping at his still-damp face, which affects you more than it really should.

“Figure some ice cream is in order.” You reply gruffly, holding the front door open for him.

His little face lights up and _that’s_ more like it, even if it is still red and blotchy. “You gotta promise me something, though, kid.” Dave looks back up at your serious tone, reddened whites around red irises giving him an even more devastated look that you try not to give in to. “No more crying. Got it?”

God, that sounds harsh, but Dave is already nodding, making a final swipe at the remaining dampness on his cheeks, and attempting to put a neutral face on. As you head down the innumerable flights of stairs of your apartment building you really hope he can keep a hold of those tears from now on, because if he finds out you break down at the slightest sniffle, you are so screwed.


End file.
